


In Good Company

by ama



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Organized Crime, Period-Typical Homophobia, Philadelphia, Queer Themes, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-15 05:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18491953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/ama
Summary: Donald Malarkey is not a gangster. He’s in love with a gangster, sure, and he is still friends with many of the soldiers of Easy Company, who now make a not-so-honest living running booze on the streets of Philadelphia. But Malarkey has never felt compelled to join in their schemes.Until the summer of 1922, when war breaks out again.





	1. Chapter 1

It was dark in the bar, and Malarkey didn’t recognize him at first.

The Frenchman whose cock he had just sucked murmured a few adoring words and left the booth, stuffing his shirt into his pants, and Malarkey took a moment to catch his breath. He had to brace one hand against the wall for balance when he finally stood; the grenade wound on his right thigh had mostly healed, but the muscle still screamed like hell if he moved the wrong way. Even so he managed to get on his feet. He didn’t turn right away. He let out a satisfied sigh and tugged on the lapels of his uniform, and thought about crossing the room for a whiskey before going back to the hotel. When he turned to go, a man was staring at him.

He was an attractive man. Even in the murky room, Malarkey could make out the cut of his jaw and the dignity of his bearing, and was impressed. If this man approached him, he wouldn’t mind getting on his knees again, although his thigh wouldn’t thank him.

Then his eyes adjusted, and he realized that the man in front of him was Captain Speirs, and his heart plummeted.

They stared at each other in utter silence for a breathless moment. Malarkey’s entire body was alive with nerves, with the urge to _do something do something do something_ , but his mind was utterly blank. The static of a radio that couldn’t catch a frequency. He watched the adam’s apple bob in Speirs’s throat and then the captain opened his mouth to speak, and that decided him.

He walked up to Speirs so quickly that the other man backed up and almost hit the wall behind him. The bar was semi-divided into two rooms, one for drinkers and one for those visiting the private booths. They were almost in plain view, here, crowded against the dividing wall and visible to anyone who might come out of a booth, but Malarkey didn’t let that stop him. Without a word, he slipped open the top button of Speirs’s trousers and reached for his cock.

The captain drew in a sharp, startled breath. He was almost hard already, and when Malarkey began to jerk him off his eyelids fluttered shut and he tilted his head back. Malarkey watched him, eyes raking over his body, hoping this might work. Speirs spread one hand flat against the wall and dug his teeth into his bottom lip, and Malarkey sped up. He was pulled soft little moans from the other man’s mouth, now, and that plus the shuffling, rhythmic sound of his arm pushing against the thick wool of Speirs’s uniform seemed impossibly loud. He wondered if there was anyone else in the booths; if so, they were being very quiet.

Suddenly Speirs wrenched his eyes open. He had an intense gaze, and Malarkey looked away. But then there was a hand in his hair and Speirs was kissing him. _Oh, shit_ , he thought, the first coherent thought he’d had, and his hand slowed. Speirs pushed his hips forward impatiently and Malarkey squeezed his cock in response, and their mouths parted again as Speirs let out a long, low groan.

They stood there for a moment, panting, with their foreheads together and their hats knocked askew.

“What the fuck was that?” Speirs said in a hoarse voice. Malarkey and drew back his hand. He wiped it on the inside of his pocket and tried to do up the top button again, but his fingers felt thick and clumsy.

“I thought—” He cleared his throat. “I thought this conversation might go better, sir, if you and I had an equal stake in it.”

“Equal—fuck,” Speirs laughed. They had been at war together for months, and this was the first time Malarkey had ever heard him laugh. “We had an equal stake from the beginning, Malarkey. Did you think I only came here because I had trouble finding a loose woman in Paris?”

There was a mocking tone to his voice, and Malarkey allowed himself a smile.

“Better safe than sorry, sir.”

“Can’t fucking argue with that, can I?”

Speirs leaned back against the wall. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette case. Malarkey had seen it plenty of times; it was silver, and tending to catch the light from the smoking lamps. This was the first time he had seen it so close, though, and for the first time he saw the engraving in the bottom corner. RS and a spade. It was rough work, incongruous with the elegance of the case, and he had no doubt it had been scratched one night in the trenches, one of those long nights when there was nothing to do but listen to the silence and drive yourself mad.

The captain stuck a cigarette between his lips and returned the case to his pocket. He pulled out a match and struck it; the flame cast an appealing glow against his cheekbones, which Malarkey took a moment to admire. He was a terribly attractive man. It was easier to appreciate that now, on the other side.

“I have a room,” Speirs said casually. He shook the match until the flame whispered out, and his eyes darted up to meet Malarkey’s. “No—don’t say anything now. I’m going to have a smoke and a drink. You’ll take this—” He held up a ring on which hung two small brass keys, and yanked one off to hand to Malarkey. “—and go to room 408 at the Royale, three blocks east, and wait for me. Or you’ll throw it in the gutter and spend the rest of the night elsewhere. I won’t fault you for it. Hell of a lot to do in Paris these days. Agreed?”

“Agreed, sir.”

Malarkey’s hand closed around the key and he walked out of the room, and the bar, on wobbling legs. His wound wasn’t giving him any trouble, but his whole body was covered in pins and needles, and the very fumes of the bar seemed to have made him drunk.

 

* * *

 

 

The city of Philadelphia looked like it was on fire, and it felt like it, too. The sun painted the buildings red and gilded the edges of the clouds, and its slow descent had done nothing, as of yet, to calm the heat of the summer day. Malarkey sat in his bay window, smoking and watching the day end. He was wearing a collared shirt that was a size too large; usually he found it comfortable, but even half-unbuttoned it was stuck to his chest with sweat. His hair was sticking to his forehead, too, and the combination of his red hair and flushed cheeks was not flattering.

Downstairs, the door opened. He heard footsteps on the stair and quickly stood, only to drape himself over the sofa, pointedly looking away from both the door and the window. He didn’t want to look as though he’d been waiting. “Keep ’em guessing,” Frannie always said.

“I’ve told you a thousand times,” he complained when the door opened. “If you don’t live here, you have to knock.”

Speirs stopped in front of the coffee table with a faint smirk on his lips. He pulled a roll of twenties out of his pocket and made a show of counting out five. He dropped them on the coffee table and rapped his knuckles on top of them twice.

“Knock knock.”

“Rent’s gone up,” Malarkey informed him, trying to keep his smile at bay. “Five dollars. Mrs. Gardner says the building’s getting old, needs work done.”

“Mrs. Gardner’s a miserable old bat,” Speirs dismissed. He fell onto the sofa and leaned over to kiss the soft skin beneath Malarkey’s ear. “ _I’ll_ talk to her.”

“She’s right. The building’s sixty years old—granted, that’s new for this town, but nothing’s been done to it in twenty-five years except the plumbing and electric.”

“Fine.” Speirs drew a ten-dollar bill from his pocket and added it to the pile. He had been carrying a bottle under his arm, and he pulled that out too and set it down on top of the money with a heavy thunk. “Brought you a present,” he mumbled as he lit a cigarette. “Know what that is?”

“Let me think—is it gin?” Malarkey asked dryly. He barely had to glance at the bottle. This was not the first bottle that had been brought to him for tasting.

“That is _genuine_ gin,” Speirs said triumphantly, brandishing the cigarette again. “Brewed by the good Booths across the pond, in a proper distillery, packed in a crate of French silk stockings, and sailed across the ocean and right on up the Delaware. And the Company is going to sell it to our loyal patrons at four-fifty a bottle. Five-fifty at the bar.”

“Four dollars a bottle?” Malarkey repeated in amazement. He picked up the bottle and examined the label on the off chance it might indicate that the price was anything but ridiculous. “For something half of them are making at home?”

“Four-fifty,” Speirs corrected. “Five-fifty at the bar. And they’re not making anything like this. This makes bathtub gin taste like suds. Think about it—the limeys are selling it for $2.25, once you factor in the conversion. We sell 40% of our stock to distributors and private buyers at twice that price. The other 60% goes to the juice joints, where by the bottle it’s double, and a little _more_ than that by the glass. We’ll earn back the cost of smuggling it here in a week. In two months, my cut will be enough to take us to Paris this spring.”

“Paris,” Malarkey repeated. He tried his best to keep his voice neutral, but a smile was battling its way onto his face. Speirs grinned back and leaned forward to kiss his forehead.

“Paris.” He stood and strolled over to the window. “We can do the whole city if you like. Notre Dame, the Louvre, hell, Gertrude Stein’s apartment if you can figure out the address.”

“Stop,” Malarkey laughed.

“Admit it, you’re impressed that I know who Gertrude Stein is,” Speirs said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Oh, extremely.”

“We could go back to that bar, too.”

Speirs’s eyes were gleaming with mischief. It was a look that, ordinarily, Malarkey would love to indulge, but he was feeling contrary, and he ignored the provocation. He rested his elbow on the back of the sofa and propped up his head on his hand.

“Where are we going _tonight_?” he asked.

“I have to stop by Toccoa,” Speirs said, tugging at his tie. “But get dressed now and I’ll take you to dinner first.”

“Dressed or _dressed_?” Malarkey asked.

He had begun dressing in a more bohemian style lately—looser shirts and pants, colorful scarves, occasionally vests or ties but suit jackets only rarely. It was a popular fashion among some of the younger artists and writers of the city, who had started inviting him to parties here and there after he had published his first slim volume of poetry.

Of course, this also marked him as an effete, and at first he had worried it would make their relationship too visible. But Speirs had dismissed his concerns. _If you act ashamed, people will try to shame you_ , he had said. _They’ll smell the blood in the water._ He had been skeptical at first, but it had proven true, so now Malarkey dressed in whatever the hell he wanted and cuddled under Speirs’s arm, and something about Speirs—the razor grin on his face or the pistols under his jacket—kept nasty comments at bay.

There were limits to Speirs’s influence, though. A handful of the really swanky joints in town either didn’t know him or weren’t afraid of him, and at those it was better to acquiesce to the dress code and be done with it.

“How nice a dinner do you want?” Speirs asked.

His eyes raked over Malarkey’s body. He liked the loose shirts—he liked the deep neckline and the way it shifted to reveal a glimpse of Malarkey’s skin when he moved. But he also liked to flaunt his cash. Sometimes Malarkey thought the conflict between these two desires was the greatest predicament in his lover’s life.

“It’s too hot for a suit,” he declared. “And I’m not getting all done up just for Toccoa. I do want to change, though.”

Speirs nodded wordlessly and gestured towards the hallway. Malarkey was surprised to see Speirs followed him. He looked immaculate as always, from the tips of his shoes to his Brillantine-slick hair.

“What are you doing?” Malarkey asked suspiciously.

“I need a new tie.”

The old one had a spot of blood on it. He hadn’t noticed.

Malarkey opened the wardrobe and rifled through it, looking for a clean shirt. He had sweated through the first one. The sooner autumn came, the better.

Speirs stepped up behind him, close enough that Malarkey could feel the heat of his body, even through the wool of his grey suit. He reached for a tie with one hand and rested the other on Malarkey’s hip. Light from the setting sun bounced off his black enamel cufflinks. They were shaped like little spades.

“What are you doing?” Malarkey repeated, in a lower voice than before. A shiver went up his spine and Speirs’s hand slid to the front of his pants.

“You were changing anyway,” he murmured.

“I was just—” His breath hitched. “I was just getting a new shirt.”

“Oops.”

Malarkey fell back against Speirs’s chest with a soft sigh. Had he _ever_ managed to say no to Speirs? He shook his head, laughing.

“You’re a bad, bad man,” he scolded.

“Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

\---

When Dick Winters went off to war, he was a clean-cut All-American boy, the son of Mennonite farmers. He didn’t cuss, he didn’t blaspheme, and he didn’t drink. As a matter of fact, he had attended two or three meetings of the Anti-Saloon League, and thought that Prohibition was a pretty swell idea. He loved his country and believed in the fundamental goodness of the human race.

No one was quite sure what prompted him to change, although smart money was on the first mustard gas attack.

It had been his idea to turn Easy Company, a gaggle of Army veterans tied together by little more than their devotion to him, into _the Company_. It began one evening in New Jersey, in conversation with Lew Nixon. Three dozen states had already ratified the 18th Amendment, and it was only a matter of time before the rest fell in line. There was money to be made in it, Winters suggested. That was a good way to run afoul of the mafia, Nixon countered. The mafia were thugs, Winters dismissed. Yes, but thugs got the job done.

Well, they’d just have to get their own thugs, then.

They started with the officers. Speirs was their first choice, and he accepted immediately, for the thrill more than the booze or the money. Welsh and Buck took a little more convincing but not too much. Lipton politely declined. And then, with command established, they went for the Philadelphia boys.

Babe, Spina, and Wild Bill had no qualms about joining the Company; they had been brawling, stealing, and thumbing their noses at cops their entire lives. Soon word spread to other trusted members of Easy Company. Some became full-fledged members straight away (Liebgott, Perconte, Luz). Others, like Doc Roe and Toye, weren’t up for any rough stuff but came to the city anyway to stitch up suspicious wounds and manage the bars, respectively.

(Then there was Malarkey, who came for other reasons—but he was only peripheral to the Company, not at its heart.)

By 1922, the Company owned half a dozen speakeasies concentrated in South Philly. Most were temporary establishments; every once in a while they were raided by the cops and shut down, only to spring up three blocks away a week later. The crown jewel, though, was Toccoa, which had a bar, a dance floor, a regular jazz band, an alcove for the officers, regular illicit poker games, and three back rooms limited to only the most trusted members of the Company—the ones who had served. Even all these years later, it still paid to be a Toccoa man.

Malarkey entered the room with Speirs’s arm slung over his shoulder, the other man’s cigarette sending a trail of blue smoke into his vision. He surveyed the crowd for a moment and savored the glances cast at the two of them. The best part of visiting Toccoa was that they were utterly fucking invincible inside its walls. He knew a few other homosexuals, men he had met through the arts scene, and once in a while he convinced them to come to Toccoa for drinks. They had to be more careful, because most of them lived outside of the Company’s territory, and there was nothing stopping someone from following them home with bad intentions. Inside the club, though, a toast from a Company man meant they could enjoy an easy night. They could drink, flirt a little, wear whatever the hell they wanted. Dancing was a different matter, though. He had never managed to convince any of them to dance.

He tugged at Speirs’s arm to get his attention and ordered, “Dance with me.” Speirs pressed a placating kiss to his temple.

“Not now, sweetheart, I’ve got to get back to the table. Hey, get us a drink, will you? Come back and sit for a while and we’ll dance as soon as business is over. Hand to God.”

“All right.”

Malarkey stole the cigarette from his hand and smoked as he wove through the crowd towards the bar. It was packed tonight—full of not just Company men, their women, and their neighbors, but rich kids who came for equal parts giggle juice and the possibility of spotting a real-life gangster. Malarkey passed Babe and Luz on the dance floor, spinning around with two such girls, and More whispering into the ear of a third. He rolled his eyes fondly and leaned against the bar.

“Hey, Malark,” Joe Toye said in his raspy voice. “Must be something big going on. Speirs makes all five officers.”

“Yeah? How long’s Welsh been back?”

Harry had been the one to officially broker the gin deal; he had stayed in Britain for a few weeks to make sure it went through, and originally planned to visit family in Ireland, before the civil war broke out. Malarkey hadn’t heard about his revised travel plans.

“A week maybe. What can I get ya?”

“Gimme a bee’s knees and a sidecar.” Malarkey glanced over his shoulder at the gyrating crowd. The whole city was restless tonight. Maybe it was the heat wave, or the strike that had ground South Philly to a halt, or the pinko preachers it had lured into shouting on every street corner. It made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. “Hey Joe, you got any whiskey? _Good_ whiskey?”

“Sure.”

Joe poured him a glass.

“Sláinte,” Malarkey said in a toast. He drank it in two sips and set the glass back on the bar. Joye gave him the cocktails and Malarkey made his way through the crowd towards the back of the room.

The officers’ table was a large booth in the back corner, and when all five officers were seated there together, it was like a glass wall was erected around it. Other Company men could approach if they had important news to impart, but they didn’t linger and they certainly didn’t offer their opinions unless invited. Malarkey, Kitty, and Katharine were allowed to sit with their fellas, and to offer commentary once the business was done and the poker game started up—although Malarkey had heard whispers that Nixon had been sleeping in the back room of another Company-owned speakeasy lately, so he doubted he would see Katharine at the table for a while. Sometimes Buck had a girl balanced on his knee, too, but that depended on the kind of business up for discussion. Tonight he was alone.

Kitty wasn’t there, either, and Malarkey almost groaned. He _hated_ being the only plus-one at the table. Even after almost three years, the officers didn’t know what to do with him. Welsh seemed to think he was in the same role as Kitty—connected to a Company man, sure, but not to the Company as a unit. Nixon didn’t seem to think of him at all. Buck was just as friendly as ever most of the time… but he fell silent if Winters was around.

Oh, Dick Winters.

Malarkey set the two glasses down on the table and sat down, crossing his legs deliberately so that he was half sitting over Speirs’s lap. He nodded hello to the officers, who responded in kind or waved their cigarettes in his direction. Winters nodded back, but his eyes slid right over him.

There was a part of Winters that clung to his old ideals. Malarkey didn’t exactly understand how he balanced the scales. Running booze, gang fights, vandalism, theft, beatings, even the occasional hit—apparently all was forgiven as long as Winters limited himself to one drink a night, sat in his pew at Trinity Lutheran Church every Sunday from ten to eleven, and privately disapproved of sodomy.

“I think the place on 25th is our best bet,” Winter said in his brisk, business-like voice, continuing the conversation that had begun before Malarkey arrived. “It’s close to the riverfront, and we’ll be able to pick up some of the southwest Center City clientele. Agreed?”

There was a chorus of agreements from the other officers, and Malarkey worked to hide his surprise. 25th was seven blocks further west than the Company usually ventured, and last he heard, it was smack dab in the middle of the Piccolo family’s territory.

“Piccolo?” he murmured into his glass.

Speirs turned his head and kissed Malarkey just above his ear. “Lou’s in the Pen,” he said lowly. “The cousins fell apart; everything’s up for grabs.”

He mouthed at Malarkey’s neck for a little bit longer, until Malarkey squirmed and shoved him away. Winters had cleared his throat and was about to move on, and he had a feeling that this was the real reason all the officers had been called tonight.

“Last night, some goon contacted Nix about a job. He wouldn’t say who was behind it at first, but this morning we learned he was Frank Chambers’s bodyguard. We caught him getting out of one of Chambers's liveried cars. And the day before he approached us, Chambers met privately with Al Gunning and John Richter, so it's a safe bet they're involved. They’re offering us $3,000.”

Buck whistled lowly.

“What do they want for it?”

“They gave us a list,” Nixon said. He drew a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and set it on the table. “Ten union men, leaders of the general strike. They want each of these ten beaten once, quietly but badly, and then reminders for any who show their face at the picket line after that. If they go back again, dirt naps, with a bonus for us.”

Malarkey found himself leaning closer, and to hide it he took a sip of his drink and set the glass down on the table. He was intrigued. Chambers, Gunning, and Richter were all kings of industry—shipping and manufacturing, mostly, although he had no doubt they had fingers in other pies, too. The strike had started in one of Chambers’ steel mills and then spread to other factories in the area, and most recently to the dock workers.

It was not surprising that these men wanted the strike ended, but it was a little surprising that they had asked the Company to intercede. They had never done this kind of work before, nor been contacted so directly.

“Three hundred a head,” Welsh remarked. “They must be getting nervous. What’s it been, a week?”

“And change,” Nixon nodded.

“Not surprising,” Speirs said with a shrug. “I hear the strikers are asking for a pay raise _and_ an hours reduction, and not a scab in sight. Three hundred a head is a bargain compared to what they’ll have to shell out otherwise.”

“The question is, do we take the job?” Winters asked, tapping the list. “We’ve never taken sides in this fight before, and this is the biggest ask we’ve ever gotten from men at this level. It would change things, that’s for sure.”

“Hell yeah we take it,” Welsh said right away.

“Hang on, now, I’m not ready to jump just because Al Gunning snaps his fingers,” Nixon said. “Have you met the man? He’s a world-class prick.”

“A world-class prick paying us three thousand dollars,” Welsh countered. “I say we do it. Besides, I don’t think we can afford to turn these men against us. They’ve all got seats on city councils, business bureaus, all that bullshit. We won’t be able to launder a cent if we turn them down, not to mention the fact that they probably have ties to cops, too, and deeper pockets than we do. Hell, the _clubs_ wouldn’t be profitable if it weren’t for their sons and daughters and their friends out slumming every night.”

“They might not retaliate,” Buck suggested. “They have other options—local cops, Pinkertons, other gangs.”

“The docks and factories are in our territory,” Speirs said sharply. “We’re not going to let some other gang come through.”

“We could offer safe passage for the one job,” Buck shrugged. “Charge them a toll fee if you like. My point is, it shouldn’t be us. If our locals see us involved in something like this, it’ll make daily business damned unpleasant. We won’t be able to walk down the street without mothers throwing out the bathwater over our heads, or worse.”

“I’ve got to point out, though, the unions don’t pay us anything,” Nixon interjected. “We don’t _owe_ them anything.”

“Maybe the unions don’t, but their members do, individually,” Speirs argued. “They pay protection for their homes and their parents’ shops, they repay loans with interest, they prop up the juice joints and the front-facing operations. And they have expectations because of it. Fear alone isn’t going to keep us in business, they need to be able to trust that we’ll do what we say we’ll do.”

“We’d probably have to double our pay to the cops, too,” Buck mused. “If we piss people off, they might not keep their mouths shut anymore, and it’s harder to look away when you’ve got witnesses banging on the squadroom windows.”

“Here’s a question: are we _sure_ folks care that much about the unions?” Welsh asked, looking around at each of them. Nixon shrugged, and Buck and Speirs glanced at each other without an answer. “I’m not so convinced, either. If we were breaking the skulls of their kids, that’d be one thing. But Freddy Delancey’s the only one on that list born and raised in Philly. A lot of them are higher-up guys in the unions, the kind who deal with _national_ strikes. If we can make a case they’re outsiders—Soviets, even—we can at least muddy the waters a little. Increase our presence in other ways, and folks might come round.”

“Got a point there,” Buck acknowledged.

“Three thousand dollars plus the new gin profits would be enough to offset the costs…” Nixon thought out loud. “Assuming folks came round sooner rather than later.”

The officers fell silent and looked to Winters, who was still staring at the list with a frown worrying his face. There was a certain point in every deliberation when they always fell silent, waiting for Dick to either ask a question or make his pronouncement. This moment had come around sooner than most. It made sense—none of them had much invested in the argument. Welsh had come from a union town, but this was a different territory, and he had a weakness for easy money. Speirs and Buck’s families came from white-collar backgrounds, and Nixon was as wealthy as any of the bosses, although his lazy irreverence towards his parents’ crowd kept him from committing right away.

Malarkey had been watching the argument silently, eyes bouncing from one man to the other. His lungs were vibrating with the effort it took to keep from speaking up. This was the kind of argument that made him realize, all over again, how sharply the line between officers and enlisted was drawn. Malarkey wasn’t as close to most of the guys as he used to be, but even he could see the gaping flaw in this plan, the flaw that none of the officers had yet acknowledged. He threw back the last sip of his cocktail and thought _fuck it._

“You’ll lose the boys if you turn on the unions,” he said, and all five officers stared at him. He cleared his throat. “Bill and Perco have four brothers, altogether, in the Wobblies, and Toye’s got one back home who’s a miner. I think Bill actually have a couple striking right now. Babe’s got one brother in the AFL, three sisters in the garment workers’, and he was in the dockworkers’ for a while when he got back from France. Even Liebgott, this may not be his territory, but he’s friends with some of the Yiddish socialists. They’ll follow orders, sir, but… they won’t like it.”

Buck and Nixon were nodding, and even Welsh looked like he saw the sense in that. Winters was staring at Speirs.

“Don,” Speirs said quietly. Malarkey’s cheeks were suddenly hot. “Why don’t you go get another drink?”

For a moment, Malarkey was paralyzed with a heady mixture of shame and indignation. But he didn’t want to fight and lose in front of these men, and after a second he nodded tightly.

“All right,” he choked out, and he slipped out of the booth and launched himself into the crowd of thrashing bodies.

Out of the officer’s sight, the indignation took over. He made a beeline through the dancers, ignoring the squawks from anyone caught by his elbows, and threw himself into a seat at the bar with a choice oath. This was why he fucking _hated_ the Company sometimes. More than once he had thought about joining it fully. He knew he could be useful, damn good at it, even… but not so long as he was attached to Speirs.

Among the officers, he would always be Speirs’s boy. If he was among the enlisted by themselves, sure, things went okay, but things started to get tense if there were officers around, too. Suddenly they remembered that Malarkey was an NCO who had decided to _literally_ bend over for an officer. They didn’t like that. They didn’t know what to do with that, not a damn man in the Company.

A queer—sure. They made good money off other people’s sins, and they could be polite about it. A soldier—perfect, their kind of man. A queer soldier? The goddamn world had turned upside down.

“Another?” Joe said.

Malarkey hadn’t noticed him approach, and he jumped a little bit. He looked up at Joe, whose eyes were so dark they looked black, as impenetrable as iron. Joe wasn’t a full member of the Company, either. He claimed he couldn’t be, not with half his leg missing, and everyone accepted that answer and didn’t point out that Bill managed to get by just fine. Malarkey had never asked Joe what the real reason was—but he think he knew anyway.

Bill was the kind of guy who could bounce back from anything. Hell, half the time everyone forgot he was missing a leg, until a bar fight broke out and he started using his prosthetic as a club. Joe wasn’t like that. Joe _felt_ things, and when things started to bother him, he preferred to retreat into himself rather than laugh it off or turn to others for comfort. Doc Roe was like that, too, and so was Malarkey.

It wasn’t shell shock, what they had, but it was _something_. Something that made them hate war, whether that meant in the trenches or in the streets. Something that set them apart.

“ _Fuck_ this place,” Malarkey said.

“Fuck this place,” Joe agreed.

He set two shot glasses on the counter and filled them with gin and a squeeze of lemon. They tapped the glasses and downed them in one go. Malarkey grimaced. It tasted like homemade gin, and not good even by that standard. He thought of the bottle of Booth’s waiting in his apartment. Surely there was a crate of it in one of the back rooms, too, waiting to be unpacked and stocked and sold—but he preferred the atmosphere of his own living room. He swung his leg over the stool and stood.

“If Speirs asked, I went home,” he said. Joe nodded.

He didn’t so much as glance at the back table before he departed.

\---

Malarkey was draped across the window seat again when Speirs entered the parlor, except this time he was the one clutching a bottle of gin in his hand, and he had made no secret of the fact that he had been watching the window.

“You’re right,” he said without looking over. “This is good gin.”

Speirs didn’t respond. He leaned against the back of the sofa and stared out at the black sky. After a moment he crossed his arms, and his gaze fell to Malarkey’s face.

“We think we can up the price to $4,000.”

“You probably can,” Malarkey agreed. Speirs sighed.

“You know it’s not personal, Don,” he said in a low voice. “Any of the others would have had to leave, too.”

“In theory. In practice, it’s always me.”

“Because they don’t even have a seat at the table.”

“Neither do I,” Malarkey said with a bitter laugh. “I just steal yours.”

Speirs knelt down and ran his hands across Malarkey’s back. His lips touched the shell of his ear.

“That’s what we agreed to, sweetheart,” he said in a low voice. “All of us, when we started up, we agreed to keep the chain of command, because when it comes down to it, most men don’t _want_ command. You know that.”

Malarkey was silent.

“And the two of us agreed to keep you out of it.”

He sighed and took a swig of gin.

“Take the money,” he said finally. “What they really want is for the men to go to ground. They’re hoping that without the organizers, the whole thing will get confused and they’ll be able to get scabs in. Give the men a black eye each for appearance’s sake, toss them a couple hundred for the strike fund, and tell them to lie low.”

Speirs lifted the bottle from Malarkey’s hand and took a long sip.

“You think the union boys will manage without the organizers?”

“As long as they know to hold the line. Besides, most of the men on the list are out-of-towners, and locals are better at keeping scabs away anyway.” He paused, considering the options. “Loan out our boys. The bosses always like to get colored scabs, if they can, but unemployment is low, and they’re already paying colored wages so I doubt they’ll draw anyone away from steady work. They’ll get greenhorns instead. The Irish come with families; if Babe and Toye can get the women persuaded, give them a bit of the strike fund money, they’ll never let the men cross the line. Most of the Italians come alone. They send money to their families back home, and go back after a few years. Send out Bill, Spina, and Perco to scare ’em a bit, make like they’re mafia, not just Company. The Italians won’t risk getting their families involved for this.”

“And Liebgott?”

Malarkey snorted.

“Jews don’t cross picket lines, not the greenhorns at least. Half of ’em are Soviets.”

Speirs thought about it for a moment, and then he nodded.

“All right. I’ll bring it up.”

“Good.”

Malarkey held up his hand and Speirs handed him the bottle back, but then he changed his mind. He screwed the cap on and tossed the bottle on the sofa, and then he stood. The sudden movement made him sway, and he locked his arms around Speirs’s neck for balance.

“Take me to bed, won’t you?”

“I absolutely will,” Speirs murmured. Even against Malarkey’s feverish skin, his hands were hot and his lips were fire. “You know none of this matters.”

“Yeah,” Malarkey agreed quietly.

“It’s a bit of cash, a bit of fun. But fuck them all. The only thing that matters is me and you, huh, doll?”

Malarkey snorted with laughter. He was drunk, and something about that struck him as extremely funny. Speirs frowned and poked him in the forehead.

“You know, I liked you better when you called me sir.”

“That can be arranged,” Malarkey simpered, and he grabbed Speirs by the hand and dragged him towards the bedroom.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I stole the “British gin smuggled to the US in crates of stockings” plot from Peaky Blinders. I stole a lot of this fic from Peaky Blinders, tbh.  
> \- The Pinkerton Detective Agency was famous for infiltrating labor unions and employing violent strike-breaking tactics in the late 1800s and early 1900s.  
> \- The International Workers of the World (Wobblies) and American Federation of Labor were some of the most prominent unions in the 1920s.  
> \- Large numbers of Italian migrants to the US in the late 1800s and early 1900s moved between the two countries several times, pursuing work opportunities, before settling permanently in the United States. Scholar Donna Gabaccia has written a lot about Italian immigration and gender if you're interested in learning more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end note for some historical notes and a map!

The room was quiet. Malarkey closed his eyes and listened to the rapid thump of Speirs’s heartbeat, slightly out of time with his own. It was slowing, as was the in-and-out of his breath. Outside the hotel door, the landing creaked. That should have meant danger; Malarkey should have leapt up and frantically pulled on his clothes in case the person on the landing tried to come in, and found them like this. But he wasn’t afraid. He was content and sleepy. He listened to the steady heartbeat under his cheek and knew that the stranger would pass. And so he did.

“How’s your leg?” Speirs asked. “All right?”

“Yeah,” Malarkey replied. He was disappointed; he had wanted silence to hold the room a little longer.

“Good.” There was a short pause. “I’m going to grab a smoke.”

Malarkey rolled away obligingly. He ended up on his back with the sheets pooled at his waist, one hand resting on his stomach as he stared up at the water-stained ceiling. Speirs had gotten impatient with the blanket; he had pulled it out from the mattress and cast it onto the floor. Now, with nothing but the sheets for warmth, Malarkey thought about fetching it. Luckily the room had no windows for the early-winter chill to seep through.

He heard the clink of buckles as Speirs put on his trousers, the click of the cigarette case, the scrape of the match and the faint hiss of tobacco catching alight.

Malarkey flopped his head to the side and almost felt the urge to laugh. God, it’d been a while since he laughed.

“What are you smirking at?” Speirs asked. He sat down on the bed before Malarkey could answer, took his head in both hands, and kissed him. “Well?” he asked, touching their foreheads together.

“I…” He had forgotten the question. Speirs peered down at him with that oh-so-familiar look, the impatient officer look, and this time Malarkey really did laugh. “I just got fucked by my commanding officer, and I enjoyed it. That’s what’s funny.” He paused for a moment and sat up, leaning on the heels of his hands. “Let’s do it again.”

“I think I’m done for the night,” Speirs smiled. He sat on the edge of the bed and then fell onto his back, blowing smoke at the ceiling. “Tomorrow,” he promised.

Malarkey sighed.

“I wish you hadn’t said that.”

“Why?”

“Tomorrow is always a lie.”

Speirs turned his head.

“You think I’m a liar?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I know how this works.” He shrugged. “Either tomorrow never happens at all, or tomorrow is when it gets complicated, and when it gets complicated, it’s ruined. Either way, ‘tomorrow’ never lives up to ‘tonight.’”

Speirs stared at him in silence for a long, long time. Malarkey resisted the urge to squirm, although he did have to look away after a minute. The intensity of Speirs’s gaze was too much to bear, even here in this half-lit room.

“Tonight, then.” Speirs rolled onto his knees and bent over to kiss the curve of Malarkey’s neck. “Give it a minute—d’you want a drink? I’ve got whiskey, or we could get a bottle of wine pretty easily…”

“Do you have a cigarette?” Malarkey asked, clearing his throat to disguise the unexpected emotion that welled up within him.

“Sure.” Speirs drew back and pulled his cigarette case out of his pocket. He started to take one out, and then paused and tossed the whole thing down on Malarkey’s lap. “Here, take the case. To remember me by, in case I turn out to be a liar.”

He flashed a crooked smile. Malarkey smiled back, stuck a cigarette between his lips, and leaned forward so the other man could light it for him.

 

* * *

 

Malarkey was typing when someone started to bang on the door, so loudly that he jumped, swore, and jammed two of the keys. He muttered another curse to himself and took up a pencil to try and poke the hammers into the correct position. Of course, he thought, it had to be the first day in _weeks_ that the words were actually coming at a reasonable pace. Wasn’t that life?

He ignored the door. Likely as not it was the hag from next door, come to complain about the sound of the typewriter. She was the only old lady Malarkey had ever met that was entirely resistant to his charms.

But the pounding continued past the time when Mrs. Polk usually gave in, and there was a great deal of force behind it.

“Malarkey!” a voice shouted. “Malark, you gotta come!”

That voice was familiar. With a frown, Malarkey stood and craned his neck to see out of the window. The man had stepped off the porch and was hovering by the stoop, glancing fretfully up and down the street. Malarkey recognized his silhouette.

“Perco?” he called. “Where’s the fire?”

“You gotta come,” Perconte repeated. “Right now, come on, I’ve got the car.”

The back of Malarkey’s neck prickled. He wanted to stay and ask questions—he had a million questions rioting around in his brain—but instinct told him now wasn’t the time. He told Perconte he would be right there and retreated, closing the window behind him. His office was on the third floor, and on his way downstairs he paused and ducked into the bedroom. He picked up his wallet, his keys, and his evening coat. After a moment of hesitation, he took the Colt Police Positive .32 that Speirs kept in the nightstand. It was a small revolver, certainly not the deadliest thing the Company had in its arsenal, but it would be better than nothing if things got rough.

Perconte was pacing the street when Malarkey closed the door behind him, and Malarkey’s heart began to pound.

“Jesus, Frank, what’s going on?”

“Major doesn’t want us talking on the street,” Perconte evaded, making a beeline for the driver’s side of the car.

“There’s nobody here,” Malarkey retorted as he got in the car and slammed the door shut. “What’s happening? Where are we going?”

Perconte didn’t look before pulling off the curb and peeling down the street.

“Mount Sinai.”

“The hospital?”

Perconte didn’t answer right away. His eyes were flickering over the road and there was a tick in his jaw. He didn’t look at Malarkey when he said, “Yeah. Speirs has been shot.”

At first the words made no sense at all. People didn’t get shot in Philly, Malarkey thought, only vaguely aware of the revolver in his pocket. People got shot in Europe. And even then, it was _other people_ , not Speirs, because Speirs was untouchable. He had once seen Speirs run across the no-man’s-land and back by _himself_ and make it unscathed. One night Speirs had stopped and kissed him in the middle of Broad Street, and when Malarkey had tried to turn away he had _laughed_. He was un-fucking-touchable.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he demanded, grabbing at Perconte’s arm. Frank swore at him.

“Jesus, you’re gonna run me off the goddamn road. He got shot, Malark, that’s all I know. I was at Toccoa when we got the call, and Doc said they were going to the hospital, and the major told me to round everyone up—that’s all I know.”

He had slipped back into calling Winters “Major.” They all did, when the world turned upside down.

“But he’s—he’s okay—”

“Swear to God, Malark, I don’t know anything.” Perconte glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and reconsidered. “Shit, yeah, of course he’s okay. They got him to a hospital—he’s gonna be fine.”

Mount Sinai was the only hospital in South Philly, and it loomed above the streets like its namesake. They arrived almost before Malarkey could wrap his head around what was happening, and he jumped out of the car the moment Perconte slammed the brakes.

There were Company men at the door when they approached, low-level men who hadn’t been in the war, distinguishable only by the carefully-folded black handkerchiefs in their breast pockets. There were two of them, and they nodded to Perconte as he and Malarkey sailed past.

They found the rest of the Company in a waiting room behind a locked door. There wasn’t another soul in the room, not even a nurse, and the rooms beyond were quiet. It was a small wing, but even so, the silence was an ominous testament to the reputation the Company had developed in the last three years. Most of the doctors at Mount Sinai didn’t live in South Philly, but their patients did. They knew what the Company was capable of. If one of its officers was in surgery, and the others demanded an empty wing, a locking door, and a key, and gangsters at the entrance—they got it.

Malarkey froze in the doorway and looked around the room. Winters, Welsh, Nixon, Compton… Liebgott, Talbert, Babe, Guarnere, Spina, Martin, Bull, Ramirez, Luz, More… even Doc Roe was there, leaning against the wall with his arms folded and his mouth drawn in a tight line. Every Toccoa man in the Company had been assembled in the room—except for Toye, who was probably waiting at the bar with a shotgun in hand. Some of them were sitting down, others standing, one pacing in the corner. They were all quiet. Waiting.

“Why the fuck am I the last one here?”

Several of the men jumped at the sound of his voice, but Malarkey’s gaze was zeroed in on Winters, who lifted his head calmly.

“Most of us were near Toccoa when it happened.”

“Not all of you. Not at this time of day.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Martin and Bull exchanged glances, but none of them would meet Malarkey’s eyes.

“Aw, for Christ’s sake,” Bill said. “You _know_ why, Malark. He didn’t fall down the goddamn stairs or get hit by a car. He got shot. It’s Company business, and if you’re not going to be part of the Company then you ain’t gonna be first.”

“He’s _my_ —” He cut himself off, choking back his fury. There wasn’t time for this. He wasn’t going to win this argument, and there were more immediate concerns.

Malarkey walked further into the room and straight to Roe. Technically, Roe wasn’t part of the Company. He didn’t even live on its takings, the way Toye did; he picked up a few shifts a week at a mechanic’s shop. But if his conscience wouldn’t allow him to become a gangster, neither would it allow him to abandon his brothers-in-arms. He had taken up at a shop close to Toccoa on purpose, and every wounded man in the Company went to him. He would have been the one to examine Speirs first, to decide that he needed to go to the hospital, and to talk to the doctors. He would know what was going on.

“What happened?”

“He was shot once, in the back,” Roe said in his calm, matter-of-fact voice. “One of Bill’s cousins owns a shop near where it happened. She heard the shot, and when she saw a stranger walking away, in our territory, she rung up the club. Me, Welsh, and Luz drove over; he was unconscious when we found him, so we got him in the car and brought him straight here. He’s in surgery now.”

“Is he going—?” Malarkey cut himself off, fearful of what his instinct might lead him to say. Roe’s frown deepened, just a little bit.

“It didn’t hit the gut—I checked. But an abdominal wound like that, there’s a lot that can go wrong and I didn’t feel good about handling it on m’own. He’ll do better in a hospital, with real surgeons, I can tell you that much.”

Malarkey nodded in a mechanical way, although his stomach was churning. He was glad he was hearing this from Doc Roe rather than a stranger.

Winters cleared his throat quietly. He was standing near the wall, at the edge of the circle of men, but instantly he had the attention of everyone in the room. He barely had to raise his voice.

“Most of you have heard some of this already, but we’ll go over it again. Speirs was doing his rounds of the clubs today. He was at Toccoa until 1420, and then he headed west. He was shot in an alley near the intersection of 19th and Reed, and we got the call at 1500.

“Bill’s cousin saw a tall man in a dark suit walking out of the alley. She could tell it wasn’t one of ours, but he was walking away from her and she didn’t see his face. She said he was heading west on Reed. The first cops arrived at the scene a little while ago. They called to say they think Speirs might have gotten off a shot of his own; we checked, and his revolver is missing a bullet. There was nothing else left at the scene. That’s all we know.”

The room was silent. This was not the kind of meeting where one needed to be an officer to speak, but even so, Malarkey held his tongue. He didn’t know what he would say if he opened his mouth. It might be more shouting, or it might be a sob. Either way, it would distract the others, and he didn’t want them distracted now.

“Did the motherfucker leave anything behind, sir?” Bill asked after a minute. “Or take anything?”

“He didn’t leave anything, no. As for taking anything, it’s hard to be sure.”

He glanced at Luz, who had been sitting on a chair against the wall. There was a small cardboard box under his seat, Malarkey noticed now, and Luz cleared his throat and picked it up.

“You emptied his pockets?” Liebgott asked, sounding about half as outraged as Malarkey felt.

“Doc said to take off his coat,” Luz said defensively. “And we didn’t want to leave the keys or the gun lying around. So—yeah, while he was in the car on the way to the hospital, we got the rest.” His eyes flickered towards Malarkey. “I’ll give it back when he’s awake, all right?”

“Luz,” Winters said.

“Right, sorry. Wallet, cash, pocket watch, handkerchief—he’s still wearing both his cuffs, I noticed—revolver minus one bullet, cigarette case, box of matches, and a ring of keys. Looks like… seven, eight, nine keys.”

“That’s all of them,” Malarkey confirmed.

“Then again, if Speirs shot the bastard, we can’t say for sure he _wouldn’t_ have taken something when he had the chance.”

“But even so, this don’t feel right,” Bill said. “Gangs don’t shoot bosses for no reason. They do it to start a war or send a message, and you don’t have to ask why. The mafia usually leaves something or sends something. The Irish, they’ll use fists or knives when dealing with higher-ups. They don’t shoot ’em in the back.”

“Maybe it was a contract,” Talbert offered. “Hey, Liebgott, isn’t there a Jewish gang in New York that does contract killings? You think they’re expanding?”

“Aw hell, I don’t know, Tab.” Liebgott leaned against a wall. He was jittery; his toe was tapping against the tile and he rolled a cigarette between his fingers. “Tell you the truth, my ties to New York aren’t strong; I don’t have family there, and I’m not close with any of the Jews _here_ because they’re all in different gangs. I can put out some questions, but I can’t say for sure I’ll get fast answers.”

“If it’s a button man, he’s terrible at his job,” Buck said bluntly. “He got off one nonfatal shot and stood around long enough for Speirs to return fire. That’s amateur work.”

“What, like a civilian?” Babe asked, sitting straight up in his chair. “Have we done anything that serious?”

Welsh shook his head. The other officers exchanged glances, and Nixon shrugged.

“We might get a message in the next few days. We left Toye at Toccoa in case anyone came while we were gone. We’ll see.”

There was another long pause, and then Winters put his hands on his hips and spoke in a brisk voice, the officer’s voice that made them all stand at attention.

“All right, listen up. We don’t know what this is about, so until we find out, we’re going to be cautious. From now on, I want Talbert with me, Luz with Welsh, Liebgott with Nixon, Bull with Buck, and Babe with Malarkey at all times, and foot soldiers outside our houses. I’m assuming that if this is the beginning of something, then they started with Speirs for a reason. As for the rest of you, I would recommend not walking out alone if you can manage it. Bill, you’re going to take the lead on gathering information. Find witnesses. Track down rumors, find anyone who holds a grudge. Bring any information you find back to me, and make sure you get officer approval before talking to any gangs. I want someone to go to Speirs’s place, too, just in case someone’s broken in or left a message there.”

“Oh, I can do that,” Babe piped up. “I’m going back with Malarkey, anyway, so I’ll already be there.”

“He doesn’t live with me.”

“Huh?” Martin said, vocalizing the surprise on most of the men’s faces. “What are you talking about? He’s at your place all the fuckin’ time. That’s _where we go_ whenever we need to find him.”

“He doesn’t live there,” Malarkey repeated. His arms were folded and he shifted his weight from one foot to the next. It was a joke, between the two of them, a joke they shared to avoid arguments about it, and he was uncomfortable explaining to a room full of people. “He’s got a trinity on 2nd.”

The officers knew that. The enlisted men looked like they were about to die with curiosity. Malarkey lifted his chin.

“I should go,” he said. “I’ve been there. Not often, but a few times. I’m more likely to know if anything’s out of place.”

“Fine. Call Toccoa to report on what you find, but after that, you and Babe should go straight to your place and stay there. I don’t want people out in the open any more than they have to be, especially in the first 24 hours.”

“What about Speirs, sir?” Spina asked. “Who’s going to stay here?”

There was a pause, as if Winters hadn’t considered it, or didn’t think they’d like the answer.

“O’Keefe.”

“ _O’Keefe_?” Perconte blurted out. Malarkey shared his sentiment. O’Keefe had arrived in the trenches a week before they laid down their arms. He was a soldier, but just barely.

“We’re going to have a foot soldier patrolling outside and another one at the door to this wing, which will be locked. The cops are going to send a patrolman past every half-hour.”

“I’ll be staying here, too,” Roe added. “We’re paying off the doctors for safety, but I’m going to look over everything they give ’im.”

“The hospital is going to be locked down. This building and Toccoa are the only ones we can be sure we’re able to protect. And they’re going to be setting up a phone in this room and Speirs’s room, so we’ll be able to communicate between here and Toccoa at all times. I’m more concerned about those of us who will be moving around.”

Malarkey reluctantly agreed that that made sense. Winters spoke for another minute or two, delivering more specific instructions, but then he fell silent and the whole room seemed to slump again. Malarkey walked around the room. He felt suddenly tired, but he didn’t want to sit down; if he sat, it would mean he expected to wait for a long time. Best not risk it.

The room was tense and quiet. The clock on the wall was ticking. Every few moments someone would take out a pocket watch or glance down at their wristlet, and Malarkey imagined that he could hear every second hand in the room ticking away at their own pace, a cacophony of sound. Almost as maddening was the twitch of the men glancing at him and then away. He knew they didn’t mean any harm by it, but the vibration in the room was going to drive him around the bend.

The only ones who were really calm were Doc Roe and Major Winters, each standing against the wall with their arms folded and their gazes pinned to the floor.

Malarkey had no idea how much time had passed when a nurse finally. She was wearing a pristine white uniform and cap, and she trembled slightly at walking into a room full of gangsters. But, to her credit, she didn’t retreat. She walked into the room, spotted Doc Roe, and took a deep breath.

“The doctor says surgery was successful,” she said.

Malarkey’s knees went weak. He stumbled, but luckily Martin, who was standing near him, noticed and grabbed him by the arm. Bull nudged a chair with his foot and Malarkey sank into it. _He’s going to be all right._ Tears gathered in the corner of his eyes and he tried to focus on his breath, to keep it steady and even without the hint of a sob.

“He had an exploratory laparotomy,” the nurse continued. Roe nodded, and the rest of them were riveted on her every word even if they didn’t know what the hell she was saying. “He needed sutures, but no major organs were hit. He has lost a lot of blood, though, and probably won’t regain consciousness for a day or two.”

“Would a transfusion do any good?” Roe asked.

“Ye-es,” the nurse said slowly. She glanced around the room. “It might take a while to find a donor.”

“No it won’t, ma’am,” Roe said, fighting a smile. “Have you already checked his type?”

“Yes, it’s type A.”

“Martin and Perconte,” Roe called. “You’re up. And Talbert is type O, if you can spare him, sir.”

“Fine,” Winters nodded. “But I want to head back to Toccoa, so Talbert, you go first.”

“Yessir.” Tab was already rolling up his sleeves.

“All right, if you’ll follow me, please…” The nurse paused and straightened her shoulders. “They’ll be bringing him through to his room in a moment. There is a limit of two visitors in the room. The patient needs quiet, and there is a risk of germs.”

Winters told the men they were dismissed. Most of them left right away; they liked Speirs but weren’t close to him, and knowing that he would live was enough. Several patted Malarkey’s shoulder on the way out, which was nice of them.

The room felt larger when the door closed behind them. It was just Doc Roe, Babe, Malarkey—and Winters, who was waiting for Talbert.

After a minute of silence, Winters walked over to the desk and took a few sheets of paper, a clipboard, and a pen. He sat down in one of the chairs against the wall and began writing. Battle plans, no doubt. Malarkey stared at him for a moment, wondering if this was the right time to bring up what was on his mind. Yes, he thought. It would have to be now, before things really got going.

He walked up to Winters and cleared his throat. He stood with his back straight and his hands clasped behind his back.

“I’d like a word.”

His voice seemed loud in the empty room. Winters glanced up at him, and then at Babe and Roe. He nodded, and Malarkey heard the sound of the door opening and shutting. Winters looked back at his notes.

“Speak.”

“Sir, I’d like to work with the Company on this.”

“This?”

“Finding out what happened. Finding who did it, and dealing with him.”

“No.”

He had been prepared for that. Malarkey took a deep breath and tried again.

“You offered me a place in the Company in the beginning,” he pointed out. “Back in ’19. I want to take you up on it.”

“It was a one-time offer, Malarkey,” Winters said curtly. “You don’t get to say yes after you’ve said no. Is that all?”

He hadn’t looked up from his clipboard. His pen kept moving across the paper, trailing lines of black ink that glittered under the glare of the electric lights. The light struck his college class ring, too, and the spade cufflink that was as dark as the ink on the page.

Winters used to write reports in the trenches, huddled against the wall and squatting on a wooden box. He wrote with a pencil on grimy paper that grew mildew in the warmer months, and the enlisted men would privately marvel that he could keep it dry enough to write on in the first place. They could tell he didn’t enjoy the paperwork, though, because he never stuck to it. He would write a page, or half a page, and then start fidgeting and looking around, and then carefully fold it back up and start walking down the line. He had sharp eyes. He always seemed to notice just who needed a pat on the back, a word of encouragement, or first dibs on the next delivery of ammo. The men had loved him.

Malarkey had loved him, too, and he had been pretty sure Winters liked him back. Hell, Winters had made sure that he was one of the first men to get liberty in Paris—he wouldn’t have met Speirs in that goddamn bar if it wasn’t for that.

He knew some of the men liked Winters better now than they had in the war. They said he made more jokes—dry, sarcastic jokes, but funny ones nonetheless. They said it was good to see him drink and hang around the bar with the men, and that he relied more on their suggestions in the city than in the trenches. Maybe if Malarkey were a member of _the Company_ he would agree. As it was, he missed the old Easy Company commander.

“Buck’s had affairs with three married women since he got here,” he blurted out. “Welsh spends more money at _your_ gambling tables than any civilian in town, and Nixon drinks more of your booze than any of them. Talbert, Luz, and Martin have each taken girls to get abortions with that old woman on Snyder Ave, and Liebgott visits whores at least three times a week. A few weeks ago, Babe, Spina, and Bill got drunk and robbed a _church_.”

“They stole a few bottles of sacramental wine and the small amount of silver they could fit under their coats,” Winters said. He set his pen down and folded his hands. “They gave it back the next day, put $50 in the collection basket, and said their Hail Marys. What’s your point, Malarkey?”

“My point is that you still trust them. You can look them in the fucking eye. And me—me you can barely stand to be in the same room with. Why is what Speirs and I do any more disgusting than what the men in this Company do _every day_? Either on your orders or behind your back?”

His posture had changed. He wasn’t standing at attention anymore, and his voice was no longer calm. Malarkey wasn’t an angry person, normally, but he had been biting his tongue for three years and he was tired of the taste of blood in his mouth.

“Nothing concerning these men happens behind my back,” Winters corrected quietly. “And I’m not disgusted by any of it.”

“Oh really?” Malarkey asked scornfully. He grinned and shook his head in disbelief.

“Really. I may not approve, but I don’t let my personal morality get in the way of business.” Winters paused and sat back in his chair. “Do you know why the Army has VD policies, Malarkey? It’s not because the brass has any  opposition to men seeking out female company. Far from it. They know that vice, in moderation, is good for morale. The problem comes when a man allows his vice to cause damage to the unit—by distracting him, by putting others at risk, by diverting resources.”

“You think I cause damage to the unit?”

“You were a good soldier, Don,” Winters said. “I liked you and I respected you. But you aren’t a member of this unit anymore. You’re an Achilles heel. Welsh isn’t going to get kneecapped by a bookie, because I’m his bookie. Nixon doesn’t drink himself into the gutter, because he drinks at my bars. The old woman on Snyder Ave, and the whores, they mean absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things, and if they became a problem, I only have to snap my fingers and the cops would pick them up. And as for Buck’s affairs, I don’t believe that this Company can be taken down by a jealous husband.

“Yes, I have a problem with your relationship with Speirs, because I think it’s reckless. Controlling Speirs is—difficult. And if I tried to control you, he would break out of my grasp, and that makes the two of you the biggest threat to our operation. You live on the edge of our territory, because he doesn’t want you mixed up in this, which makes you and everyone who visits you vulnerable. I assume you know that the cops are bribed to ignore your arrangement?”

“Yes,” Malarkey said shortly.

“Did you know that’s not covered by Company funds? We pay a cut of our monthly revenue to the vice squad, and Speirs _matches_ it. He has to, because when it comes down to it, no one _wants_ to arrest us for selling alcohol or visiting whores or keeping the peace in our territory. They _want_ to arrest men for sodomy. Speirs knows that. He knows that your arrangement puts him at risk for arrest or blackmail or… getting shot in the back in an alleyway.”

It felt like ice water was trickling down his throat and pooling in his stomach. Malarkey shook his head.

“That’s not—it’s Company business,” he said through numb lips. “It must be.”

“Why?”

“Because—he’s a gangster. Gangsters get shot.”

“So do queers.”

“No.” Malarkey shook his head again. “No, that’s ridiculous. Nobody’s stupid enough to start a war over _that_.”

“Extremists are. Extremists only care about making a point, and who better to make a point with? Speirs takes risks with you that no other man in this city would take, just because he thinks he can.”

_Gangs don’t shoot bosses for no reason… If it’s a contract killer, he’s terrible at his job… That’s amateur work..._

It couldn’t be true, but Malarkey couldn’t come up with an argument against it. His ears were ringing.

“I didn’t bring this up with the men earlier, because frankly we’re ill-equipped to handle that kind of investigation,” Winters said, sitting forward in his chair and picking up his pen again. “If it’s Company business, I want us to be prepared. If it’s personal, Babe is there to protect you.”

“They wouldn’t…” Malarkey began, but his voice trailed off.

“I’ve said my piece, Malarkey. We’re not going to discuss this further. The men are going to continue along as if this is a gang war. If it’s something else, presumably we’ll find out sooner or later. Reach out to any of your—” He gestured dismissively. “—friends, if you like, if you think they’ll have any ideas. But don’t visit them or bring them back to your place. Bring them to Toccoa, in daylight.”

“Yes, sir,” Malarkey said quietly.

“Aside from that, you are not involved in this. At all.”

“No, sir.”

Winters looked down at the clipboard. He picked up a sheet of paper and carefully blotted the top sheet, then folded it in thirds and stuck it in his pocket. He stood and walked towards the door, and paused with his hand on the knob.

“Don… I’m sorry you weren’t the first call. It won’t happen again.”

Malarkey didn’t respond. He stared straight ahead for a long minute, at the mint green plaster of the wall and the tiny rectangular window near the ceiling. He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm, cleared his throat, and walked out of the room.

“Babe, let’s go.”

“Huh?” Babe had been leaning against the wall, but he jumped up and exchanged a confused look with Doc Roe. “But they said they were going to bring Speirs through.”

“I know. We need to get going. We have to check the house.”

“It’ll only be a minute,” Roe added. “They’re doing the first transfusion in the surgery, but after that—”

“I know,” Malarkey interrupted. He exhaled. “But he’s alive and he’s going to be fine and he won’t even be awake to see me, so—so we’re going to go.”

He set off down the hall without waiting for a response, although he was sure they were wondering what the hell was going through his mind. Maybe they thought he was giving up now that the going was getting tough. Maybe they thought he wanted to get home so he could pack his things and be gone before Speirs woke up. How many relationships really survived a gang war, in the end? How many relationships between men survived at all?

Or maybe he was being ungenerous. Maybe they were his friends, and they were worried. Malarkey wiped at his eyes again and took a deep breath.

He couldn’t see Speirs right now. Not if this was his fault. Not when Speirs was still unconscious and covered in his own blood and might still—no.

Not yet.

\---

Babe and Malarkey walked back to the house an hour later, having confirmed that nothing was out of place at Speirs’s small, three-room house. The only non-essential in it was a large steamer trunk filled with cash, guns, and assorted items Speirs had filched from God knew where. It would be hard to tell if a few bills, or a gun, or a set of silver candlesticks, had gone missing from the enormous pile, but the trunk was so neat that Malarkey was inclined to think it hadn’t been touched. There was no message here. 

There was a photo, though—a photo of Chuck Grant, tucked into the netting of the lid. Malarkey stared at it for a long minute, trying to sort out the swell of emotion rising in him. The familiar grief, and wistfulness at the sight of a friend he hadn’t thought about in several months. (Too long.) Dread at the idea that Speirs, too, might be nothing but a body in the ground and a cherished photograph. Jealousy and resentment and the accompanying self-loathing.

Finally Malarkey slipped the photo back into its place, and told Babe he was ready to go home.

They didn’t speak much as they walked the eight blocks back to Malarkey’s house. When they arrived, Babe drew his gun and slowly began to clear the place, room by room. Malarkey didn’t bother accompanying him. He poured two liberal portions of whiskey and brought them up to the parlor. It was late afternoon, and the weak sunlight that came in the windows was filtered through grey clouds.

Just two weeks ago, Speirs had come bounding through the doorway with a bottle of Booth’s in his hand and a triumphant gleam in his eye. Making promises about Paris. Malarkey’s hand shook when he lifted his glass. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

After a minute, Babe joined him.

“House looks fine. Is that for me?” Malarkey nodded. “Thanks.”

He sat down in an armchair opposite Malarkey and reached for the other whiskey. They sat in silence for several minutes. With someone else, it might have been uncomfortable, but Babe had been a member of Malarkey’s platoon. They had shared other silences before, silences that held the reverberation of mortars and machine gun fire. This was nothing.

He was grateful, in a way, that Babe was here with him now. Liebgott was the only other man in the Company who had once been under Malarkey’s command; the others were dead, or had transitioned peacefully to civilian life. And if he had to have a babysitter, he preferred Babe.

“Hey, Malark, can I ask  you something?” Babe asked suddenly.

“Sure.”

“Why do you…” He paused and shifted in his chair. “What did… you and Speirs,” he said, the tips of his ears turning red.

“You mean, why me and Speirs?” Malarkey suggested, reconsidering his charitable thoughts.

“Yeah.”

“Because I’m a godless sodomite,” he said breezily, knocking back his whiskey.

“Nah, you’re not. You go to mass more often than I do. And ’sides, that’s not what I meant. I meant—why _him_ ? Don’t get me wrong,” he added, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I think he’s a damn good officer. If he told me to march into hell, I’d do it, no questions asked. But I wouldn’t know how to be his friend. And you, you’re not even his friend, you _love_ him. Right?”

“Yeah,” Malarkey said. His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, I do. Should’ve brought the bottle,” he added ruefully as he looked down into his empty glass.

“Here,” Babe said, handing over his own.

“Thanks.” Malarkey was quiet for a moment, and then he said the first thing that popped into his mind. “You know why he doesn’t live here? Because he thinks I’m safer if he doesn’t. I’ve asked him to move in here a hundred times, but there’s no getting through to him about it. Even so, he stops by all the time, and—and he brings me presents. Not expensive things, usually, but little things he knows I’ll like. He can’t walk by a shop window without thinking of me and looking around,” he said with a self-conscious laugh. “He cares about people more than he says, you know. And not just about me—about you, about the whole Company.”

“You’re kidding,” Babe snorted.

“I’m not. I know he has a reputation—but honestly, I think half the reason he keeps it up is because he’s amused by it. He does crazy things to get the job done, but he does have a sense of humor. A good one. He doesn’t—” Malarkey caught himself and spoke slowly. “He never really loses control. That’s just an act.”

What he had almost confided was that Speirs never yelled at him. But that would lead to a different conversation, an explanation of the fact that every other man Malarkey had slept with more than once had been scared shitless, and that that had made them angry. They had yelled, thrown things, blamed him for tempting them. Once a married man from Portland had tried to hit him, even, but that was right after the war and Malarkey had caught the blow and hit him back.

Speirs had never yelled at him. On the rare occasions he got angry, he went quiet and left the house. It was irritating, but it was comforting, too.

Malarkey polished off the second glass of whiskey and wrapped his arms around his torso.

“He bought three copies of my book, when it came out,” he said with a quiet laugh. “Made me autograph two. The unsigned one, that’s for reading. One of the others is to display, and the other is to sell for a thousand dollars once I’m famous.”

Babe laughed at that.

“I got your book, too,” he offered. He got up and circled the room, peering out the window like a good guard.

“Mm, I figured the whole first run went to the Company.”

“I liked it.”

“You _read_ it?”

“’Course I read it,” Babe laughed. He returned to the armchair and sat down. He propped his feet up on the coffee table, which was too nice to be used as a footrest. It didn’t matter, because Malarkey was only pretending to be a member of the bourgeoisie, and at the moment he was too taken aback to say anything. “I didn’t _get_ it, but I read it. You know, some of the poems didn’t rhyme.”

“That’s the done thing, now, Babe. If you rhyme too much, they think you’re inartistic.”

“Oh.”

“Did you like them?” he asked. It was a question he never asked of anyone who had read his poetry, but Babe was the rare person who would answer honestly and not sneer at him for asking.

“Yeah, I liked them. Some of them I liked a lot. There was one about—about smoke and fog and the difference between them? I liked that one.”

“It didn’t rhyme,” Malarkey smiled.

“No, but I liked it.”

Malarkey’s smile twitched wider for just a moment in acknowledgement. He had finished the whiskey, but he took out a cigarette and lit it, and Babe took out one of his own, and they sat there and smoked. Malarkey’s eyes travelled around the room, looking at everything and nothing. It began to grow dark around them. He should turn on the light, he thought. The days were getting shorter—it was twilight already. He should get up and turn on the light, and suggest something for dinner. He couldn’t make his limbs move.

Babe got up again, circled the room, peered out of the curtains. He paused at the little bookshelf and picked up the copy of Malarkey’s book resting prominently on top. He opened it and snorted at the inscription. It was the display copy.

_To R.S.— With the compliments of your devoted soldier and dearest friend. Don Malarkey._

“That’s too legible!” Speirs had admonished, grabbing him around the middle and digging in his fingers so Malarkey would laugh and try to squirm away. “You need a huge, nonsensical signature with a dozen flourishes. That’s how the pros do it.”

“Well, that’s how I do it.” Malarkey had blown on the ink to dry it, snapped the book shut, and held it out. “With my compliments,” he had said, batting his eyelashes, and Speirs had tossed the book onto the couch and bore him down for a kiss.

There were tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. Malarkey wiped at them with his sleeve and blurted out, “What am I going to do if he dies, Babe?”

His voice was hoarse and desperate, and it caught both of them off guard.

“He ain’t going to die. You heard the nurse, the surgery went fine.”

“People die in hospitals. There are infections, complications… what the _hell_ am I going to do if he dies?”

Babe walked slowly back to his chair. He sat down and leaned forward, his hands loosely clasped together.

“The police aren’t going to find the bastard who shot him,” he said quietly. “And it ain’t gonna be the officers, neither. It’s going to be one of us. And if Speirs dies… when we find him…” He paused. “You still got your sidearm?”

Malarkey shook his head, but he pulled the little revolver out of his pocket. Babe nodded.

“When we find him, you’ll be the first to know.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Murder, Inc was a Jewish gang formed by Meyer Landsky and Bugsy Siegel that was famous for contract killings. Technically they didn't get into that line of work until the 1930s but I find Jewish organized crime to be a really interesting subject and I couldn't resist a reference to them.  
> \- Blood typing/transfusion was relatively new in the 1920s; most hospitals didn't have dedicated blood banks, and transfusions were performed on demand.  
> \- I live in Philadelphia, and when I was plotting this fic I spent a lot of time thinking how it would fit on the layout of the city. I thought I might as well include a [map](https://ibb.co/mtM7CVq) so you all can see too. It includes major "plot point" locations for this fic, and Bill and Babe's irl-childhood neighborhoods, based on their statements in "Carentan" and their memoir.


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